Authors: Bob Shaw
Night Walk (3 page)
"Myra," Tallon corrected automatically, then noticed the broadening smile
on the sergeant's face.
Cherkassky's thumb had come down on the red button.
Tallon stared up into his thin, strangely triumphant face with an
overwhelming feeling of having been robbed. Something, some part of him
was gone. But what? He tried to explore his own mind, looking for dark
gaps in his memory. There was nothing but a lingering sense of loss.
Anger came fountaining up through him then, clean and pure. Tallon felt
it burn away all caution and common sense, and was grateful.
"You're filth, Cherkassky," he said quietly. "You're a disease."
The muzzle of the hornet gun came down on his shoulder, viciously, and at
the same time he saw Cherkassky's thumb go for the button again. Tallon
tried to throw an unwanted scrap of thought up into the forefront of his
mind before the contact was made.
The brittle-star is a marine animal
related to the
-- Blank!
Cherkassky backed away from Tallon, mouth twitching violently, thumb poised
over the button. This can go on all night, Tallon thought. By morning I'll
be as good as dead, because Sam Tallon is the total of all his remembered
experiences and Cherkassky is going to whittle them down to nothing.
"Go ahead, Lorie," the sergeant said. "Give him another jab. Keep at him."
"I will, Sergeant, I will; but it has to be done systematically."
Cherkassky had backed almost to the window, stretching the control cable
to its limit. The street, Tallon remembered, was seven stories down. Not
very far, but far enough.
He drove forward out of the chair, his suddenly heightened senses clearly
distinguishing the sound of the chair falling, the satisfying crunch
of his head into Cherkassky's face, the angry whine of the hornet gun,
the splintering impact as the window gave way ... then they were out in
the cold, black air, with the street lights blossoming below.
Cherkassky's body went rigid in Tallon's arms, and he screamed as they
fell. Tallon fought to gain an upright position, but the higher gravity
of Emm Luther was giving him very little time. He let go of Cherkassky,
but Cherkassky's arms were locked around Tallon's chest like steel
straps. Moaning with panic, Tallon twisted until his legs were below
him. The thrust shoes, triggered automatically by the proximity of the
ground, reacted forcefully. As his knees buckled under the deceleration
Tallon felt Cherkassky's grip tear loose, and the little man went on
down, thrashing like a hooked fish. Tallon heard the impact of his body
on the footpath.
He landed on the concrete beside Cherkassky's crumpled body, the thrust
of the antigrav soles increasing by inverse squares until the moment
of contact. Cherkassky was still alive; that much of the plan had gone
wrong. But at least Tallon was out in the open again. He turned to run
and found the lead of the brain-brush dangling from the headset, which
was still clinging to his scalp.
In the act of snatching it off he noticed the movement of gray uniforms
in the doorways of the shopping center across the empty street. Whistles
shrilled at both ends of the block. A fraction of a second later he heard
the hornet guns in action, and then he was caught in a whining cloud of
darts, which made a rapid
thock-thock-thock
as they stitched his clothes
to his body.
Tallon reeled and went down, helpless.
He lay on his back, paralyzed, and found a moment of strange peace. The
E.L.S.P. men were still blasting away zealously with their hornet guns,
but lying down he made a poor target for the horizontal swarms of darts,
and they were not getting to him. The stars, even in their unfamiliar
constellations, looked good. Up there were other men who, provided
they had courage enough to stand the random galaxy-wide pattern of
flicker~transits spreading their souls thin across the universe, were
free to travel. Sam Tallon could no longer take part in that awesome
commerce, but he would never be completely a prisoner while he could
look into the night skies.
The hornet guns abruptly ceased firing. Tallon listened for the sound
of running feet, but instead heard a movement unexpectedly close by.
A figure moved into his field of view and, incredibly, it was Cherkassky.
His face was a voodoo mask of flayed skin and blood, and one arm hung
awkwardly at his side. He moved his good hand forward painfully, and
Tallon saw that it held a hornet gun.
"No man," Cherkassky whispered "no man has ever . . ." He fired the gun
at point-blank range.
Hornet guns were regarded as a humane weapon, and usually they did no
lasting damage, but Cherkassky was a professional. Tallon, completely
immobilized by the drugs, could not even blink as the darts ripped
viciously into his eyes, robbing him forever of light and beauty and stars.
four
For Tallon there was no pain; that would come only when the paralysis
drug began to be absorbed by his system. At first he was not even sure
of what had happened, for darkness did not come at once. Instead, his
distorted view of Cherkassky and the wavering gun muzzle was replaced
by an incoherent universe of light -- splintering flashes, marching
geometric patterns of color, pine-tree shapes of amethyst and pink.
But there was no escaping the processes of logic. A hornet-gun charge
from a distance of twelve inches . . .
My eyes must be gone!
TalIon had time for a moment of anguish; then all his consciousness
contracted to focus on a new phenomenon: he was unable to breathe. With
all physical sensation blanketed by the drug, he had no way of knowing
why his breath had been shut off; but it was not too difficult to guess.
Blinding him had been only the first installment; now Cherkassky was out
to finish the job. Tallon discovered he was not very afraid, considering
what was happening, perhaps because the ancient reaction of panic --
the downward, air-seeking thrust of the diaphragm -- Was blocked by
his paralysis. If only he had kicked in Cherkassky's head while he had
the chance.
There was the sound of running feet drawing near, then voices:
"Corporal! Lift Mr. Cherkassky to the car. It looks like he's seriously
injured."
"Right, Sarge."
The second voice was followed by the sound of boots scufflng on the concrete,
and Tallon suddenly gulped air. Cherkassky must have passed out and fallen
across his face. Tallon accepted the air gratefully; then he heard voices
again.
"Sarge! Look at the Earther's eyes. Can a hornet gun do
that
?"
"You want me to show you? Get Mr. Cherkassky into the car, then shove
the Earther in the tender."
Vague shifts in his sense of balance told Tallon the orders were being
carried out. Whistles sounded; vehicle turbines were spun up noisily. And
indeterminate time went by; then Tallon began to feel pain. . . .
Less than twenty-four hours had passed, but already Tallon thought he could
feel the quickening of the other senses that accompanies the loss of sight.
In the police headquarters in New Wittenburg somebody had jabbed a hypodermic
into his neck, and he had regained consciousness with the comforting feeling
of bandages across his face. He had been given a hot drink and escorted to
a bed -- all without having a word addressed to him -- and, miraculously,
had slept. While he was sleeping someone had removed his shoes and
replaced them with thin-soled boots several sizes too large for him.
Now he was being transported in another vehicle, accompanied by three or
four anonymous E.L.S.P. officers, who communicated with him by occasional
pushes and nudges. Tallon was too helpless to try to get them to talk to
him. His mind was unable to encompass anything but the fact that he was
unable to see.
The vehicle slowed down, heeled twice as it turned corners, then stopped.
When Tallon was helped out he knew with certainty he was on an airfield.
He felt the random slap of air currents, which spoke of open space,
and smelled aviation fuel; then, in confirmation, he heard the sound of
huge turbines winding up near by.
Tallon felt a faint flicker of interest. He had never flown on Emm Luther
because it was expensive, and traveling this way would have made him too
conspicuous. The civil aircraft were large, but carried comparatively
small payloads owing to governmental regulations controlling their design.
The fuselages were heavily armored, and the wings were inefficient
by Earth standards, because they carried the complete power, fuel,
and control systems. In the event of a crash landing the wings, with
their deadly fuel load, were shed by explosive bolts. The planetary
government had made flying safe on Emm Luther, regardless of economics,
and in that respect had earned Tallon's reluctant approval. He wished
the Temporal Moderator would display such good sense in the staffing of
governmental agencies.
Unseen hands helped him up steps into the warm, plastic-smelling interior
of the plane and into a seat. Other hands fastened the safety webbing,
and suddenly he was left alone. Tallon listened intently, using his newly
discovered trick of consciously seeking different sound frequencies, but
the only voices he picked up were those of the E.L.S.P. men conversing
in whispers. Evidently they had laid on a special flight just for
him. Feeling cold, Tallon slumped down in his seat and wished he could
at least look through the windows.
His eyes no longer hurt, but the outraged nerves were still throwing
up pseudo images, some of which were painfully brilliant flashes of
color. Tallon wondered how long it would be before they gave him proper
medical attention. It was not until he heard the
whump
of the door
closing, followed by an increase in engine pitch, that he wondered where
he was being taken. There was, he decided, only one real possibility:
the Pavilion.
The prison reserved for political enemies of Emm Luther was on the
southernmost tip of the single continent. It had originally been the
winter residence of the first Termporal Moderator, who had intended to
fill in the marshy region that joined the rocky islet to the mainland.
But he had changed his mind and moved north instead. In those early days
of colonization when construction materials were still scarce, some
unknown civil servant had seen the possibilities of the Pavilion as an
escape-proof prison. Several well-placed cutting charges had broken the
spine of the little peninsula, allowing the warm waters of the Erfurt
Sea to lap across it. Within a few years the original marshy area had
become a superswamp that could be crossed only by air.
The Pavilion held fewer prisoners now than in the years when the present
political overlords were emerging. And it had confirmed the civil servant's
foresight: Nobody had ever escaped from it.
After an extremely smooth takeoff and a short climb the aircraft settled
in its course, with near-silent engines; only an occasional slipping
sensation let Tallon know he was moving through the sky. He sat listening
to the whisper of air and the infrequent whine of control servos, then
drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He awoke to the sound of the engines in full throat, the big jets hammering
fierce vibrations through the plane's structure. Tallon gripped the armrests
of his seat. A few agonizing seconds went by in his private night-world
before he realized what was happening: The big aircraft was making a
vertical landing. At Emm Luther's gravity this maneuver involved such a
prodigious expenditure of fuel that it would only be done either in an
emergency or in a landing where there was no room for even a primitive
airstrip. Tailon decided they had arrived at the Pavilion.
Coming down the steps from the passenger door, Tallon's first impression
was of the warmth of the air in contrast to the bitter winds of the New
Wittenburg winter. He had forgotten that the thousand-mile flight would
bring him close to the planet's tropics. As he was being guided across
an area of rippled concrete, with heat coming through the soles of his
thin boots, Tallon sensed the nearness of the sea with a sudden stab
of anguish. He had always liked looking at the sea. He was led through
a doorway and along a succession of echoing corridors, then finally
into a quiet room, where he was pushed into a chair. The booted feet
withdrew. Wondering if he was alone, Tallon turned his head from side
to side, aware of his utter helplessness.
"Well, Tallon, this is just about the end of the line for you. I guess
you'll be glad to rest for a while." The voice was deep and strong. Tallon
visualized its owner as a big man of about fifty. The important thing was
that he had been spoken to personally, and not unkindly. Another human
mind was reaching out through the darkness. He opened his mouth to reply,
but his throat felt tight. He nodded his bead, feeling like a schoolboy.
"Don't worry, Tallon. The reaction is catching up with you. I'll see you
get something to help you over the next few days. I'm Dr. Muller, head
of the psychology department attached to the prison. I'm going to give
you a routine check to make sure that you-know-what has been permanently
erased from your memory; then I'm going to hand you over to my colleague,
Dr. Heck, who'll see what be can do about your eyes."
"My eyes!" Tallon felt an irrational surge of hope. "Do you mean . . . ?"
"That's not my department, Tallon. Dr. Heck will examine you as soon as
I'm finished, and I'm sure he'll do everything that can be done."
Absorbed with the idea that perhaps his eyes were not so badly damaged
as he had imagined, Tallon sat patiently through the testing procedures,
which took nearly an hour. The program involved more than a dozen tiny
injections, some of which brought on sharp attacks of nausea and dizziness.
Questions were thrown at him continually, often in women's voices,
although he had heard nobody else enter the room. Sometimes the
interrogative voices seemed to be originating right inside his head --
persuasive, seductive, or frightening in turn, and always irresistible.
Tallon heard his own voice gasping out incoherent replies. Finally he
felt the terminals being stripped from his head and body.
"That appears to be that, Tallon," Dr. Muller said. "As far as I'm concerned,
you're clear. I'm going to certify you as a normal class-three security risk,
which means you'll join the other detainees and will have all the customary
privileges. In a way, you're lucky."
on the sergeant's face.
Cherkassky's thumb had come down on the red button.
Tallon stared up into his thin, strangely triumphant face with an
overwhelming feeling of having been robbed. Something, some part of him
was gone. But what? He tried to explore his own mind, looking for dark
gaps in his memory. There was nothing but a lingering sense of loss.
Anger came fountaining up through him then, clean and pure. Tallon felt
it burn away all caution and common sense, and was grateful.
"You're filth, Cherkassky," he said quietly. "You're a disease."
The muzzle of the hornet gun came down on his shoulder, viciously, and at
the same time he saw Cherkassky's thumb go for the button again. Tallon
tried to throw an unwanted scrap of thought up into the forefront of his
mind before the contact was made.
The brittle-star is a marine animal
related to the
-- Blank!
Cherkassky backed away from Tallon, mouth twitching violently, thumb poised
over the button. This can go on all night, Tallon thought. By morning I'll
be as good as dead, because Sam Tallon is the total of all his remembered
experiences and Cherkassky is going to whittle them down to nothing.
"Go ahead, Lorie," the sergeant said. "Give him another jab. Keep at him."
"I will, Sergeant, I will; but it has to be done systematically."
Cherkassky had backed almost to the window, stretching the control cable
to its limit. The street, Tallon remembered, was seven stories down. Not
very far, but far enough.
He drove forward out of the chair, his suddenly heightened senses clearly
distinguishing the sound of the chair falling, the satisfying crunch
of his head into Cherkassky's face, the angry whine of the hornet gun,
the splintering impact as the window gave way ... then they were out in
the cold, black air, with the street lights blossoming below.
Cherkassky's body went rigid in Tallon's arms, and he screamed as they
fell. Tallon fought to gain an upright position, but the higher gravity
of Emm Luther was giving him very little time. He let go of Cherkassky,
but Cherkassky's arms were locked around Tallon's chest like steel
straps. Moaning with panic, Tallon twisted until his legs were below
him. The thrust shoes, triggered automatically by the proximity of the
ground, reacted forcefully. As his knees buckled under the deceleration
Tallon felt Cherkassky's grip tear loose, and the little man went on
down, thrashing like a hooked fish. Tallon heard the impact of his body
on the footpath.
He landed on the concrete beside Cherkassky's crumpled body, the thrust
of the antigrav soles increasing by inverse squares until the moment
of contact. Cherkassky was still alive; that much of the plan had gone
wrong. But at least Tallon was out in the open again. He turned to run
and found the lead of the brain-brush dangling from the headset, which
was still clinging to his scalp.
In the act of snatching it off he noticed the movement of gray uniforms
in the doorways of the shopping center across the empty street. Whistles
shrilled at both ends of the block. A fraction of a second later he heard
the hornet guns in action, and then he was caught in a whining cloud of
darts, which made a rapid
thock-thock-thock
as they stitched his clothes
to his body.
Tallon reeled and went down, helpless.
He lay on his back, paralyzed, and found a moment of strange peace. The
E.L.S.P. men were still blasting away zealously with their hornet guns,
but lying down he made a poor target for the horizontal swarms of darts,
and they were not getting to him. The stars, even in their unfamiliar
constellations, looked good. Up there were other men who, provided
they had courage enough to stand the random galaxy-wide pattern of
flicker~transits spreading their souls thin across the universe, were
free to travel. Sam Tallon could no longer take part in that awesome
commerce, but he would never be completely a prisoner while he could
look into the night skies.
The hornet guns abruptly ceased firing. Tallon listened for the sound
of running feet, but instead heard a movement unexpectedly close by.
A figure moved into his field of view and, incredibly, it was Cherkassky.
His face was a voodoo mask of flayed skin and blood, and one arm hung
awkwardly at his side. He moved his good hand forward painfully, and
Tallon saw that it held a hornet gun.
"No man," Cherkassky whispered "no man has ever . . ." He fired the gun
at point-blank range.
Hornet guns were regarded as a humane weapon, and usually they did no
lasting damage, but Cherkassky was a professional. Tallon, completely
immobilized by the drugs, could not even blink as the darts ripped
viciously into his eyes, robbing him forever of light and beauty and stars.
four
For Tallon there was no pain; that would come only when the paralysis
drug began to be absorbed by his system. At first he was not even sure
of what had happened, for darkness did not come at once. Instead, his
distorted view of Cherkassky and the wavering gun muzzle was replaced
by an incoherent universe of light -- splintering flashes, marching
geometric patterns of color, pine-tree shapes of amethyst and pink.
But there was no escaping the processes of logic. A hornet-gun charge
from a distance of twelve inches . . .
My eyes must be gone!
TalIon had time for a moment of anguish; then all his consciousness
contracted to focus on a new phenomenon: he was unable to breathe. With
all physical sensation blanketed by the drug, he had no way of knowing
why his breath had been shut off; but it was not too difficult to guess.
Blinding him had been only the first installment; now Cherkassky was out
to finish the job. Tallon discovered he was not very afraid, considering
what was happening, perhaps because the ancient reaction of panic --
the downward, air-seeking thrust of the diaphragm -- Was blocked by
his paralysis. If only he had kicked in Cherkassky's head while he had
the chance.
There was the sound of running feet drawing near, then voices:
"Corporal! Lift Mr. Cherkassky to the car. It looks like he's seriously
injured."
"Right, Sarge."
The second voice was followed by the sound of boots scufflng on the concrete,
and Tallon suddenly gulped air. Cherkassky must have passed out and fallen
across his face. Tallon accepted the air gratefully; then he heard voices
again.
"Sarge! Look at the Earther's eyes. Can a hornet gun do
that
?"
"You want me to show you? Get Mr. Cherkassky into the car, then shove
the Earther in the tender."
Vague shifts in his sense of balance told Tallon the orders were being
carried out. Whistles sounded; vehicle turbines were spun up noisily. And
indeterminate time went by; then Tallon began to feel pain. . . .
Less than twenty-four hours had passed, but already Tallon thought he could
feel the quickening of the other senses that accompanies the loss of sight.
In the police headquarters in New Wittenburg somebody had jabbed a hypodermic
into his neck, and he had regained consciousness with the comforting feeling
of bandages across his face. He had been given a hot drink and escorted to
a bed -- all without having a word addressed to him -- and, miraculously,
had slept. While he was sleeping someone had removed his shoes and
replaced them with thin-soled boots several sizes too large for him.
Now he was being transported in another vehicle, accompanied by three or
four anonymous E.L.S.P. officers, who communicated with him by occasional
pushes and nudges. Tallon was too helpless to try to get them to talk to
him. His mind was unable to encompass anything but the fact that he was
unable to see.
The vehicle slowed down, heeled twice as it turned corners, then stopped.
When Tallon was helped out he knew with certainty he was on an airfield.
He felt the random slap of air currents, which spoke of open space,
and smelled aviation fuel; then, in confirmation, he heard the sound of
huge turbines winding up near by.
Tallon felt a faint flicker of interest. He had never flown on Emm Luther
because it was expensive, and traveling this way would have made him too
conspicuous. The civil aircraft were large, but carried comparatively
small payloads owing to governmental regulations controlling their design.
The fuselages were heavily armored, and the wings were inefficient
by Earth standards, because they carried the complete power, fuel,
and control systems. In the event of a crash landing the wings, with
their deadly fuel load, were shed by explosive bolts. The planetary
government had made flying safe on Emm Luther, regardless of economics,
and in that respect had earned Tallon's reluctant approval. He wished
the Temporal Moderator would display such good sense in the staffing of
governmental agencies.
Unseen hands helped him up steps into the warm, plastic-smelling interior
of the plane and into a seat. Other hands fastened the safety webbing,
and suddenly he was left alone. Tallon listened intently, using his newly
discovered trick of consciously seeking different sound frequencies, but
the only voices he picked up were those of the E.L.S.P. men conversing
in whispers. Evidently they had laid on a special flight just for
him. Feeling cold, Tallon slumped down in his seat and wished he could
at least look through the windows.
His eyes no longer hurt, but the outraged nerves were still throwing
up pseudo images, some of which were painfully brilliant flashes of
color. Tallon wondered how long it would be before they gave him proper
medical attention. It was not until he heard the
whump
of the door
closing, followed by an increase in engine pitch, that he wondered where
he was being taken. There was, he decided, only one real possibility:
the Pavilion.
The prison reserved for political enemies of Emm Luther was on the
southernmost tip of the single continent. It had originally been the
winter residence of the first Termporal Moderator, who had intended to
fill in the marshy region that joined the rocky islet to the mainland.
But he had changed his mind and moved north instead. In those early days
of colonization when construction materials were still scarce, some
unknown civil servant had seen the possibilities of the Pavilion as an
escape-proof prison. Several well-placed cutting charges had broken the
spine of the little peninsula, allowing the warm waters of the Erfurt
Sea to lap across it. Within a few years the original marshy area had
become a superswamp that could be crossed only by air.
The Pavilion held fewer prisoners now than in the years when the present
political overlords were emerging. And it had confirmed the civil servant's
foresight: Nobody had ever escaped from it.
After an extremely smooth takeoff and a short climb the aircraft settled
in its course, with near-silent engines; only an occasional slipping
sensation let Tallon know he was moving through the sky. He sat listening
to the whisper of air and the infrequent whine of control servos, then
drifted into an uneasy sleep.
He awoke to the sound of the engines in full throat, the big jets hammering
fierce vibrations through the plane's structure. Tallon gripped the armrests
of his seat. A few agonizing seconds went by in his private night-world
before he realized what was happening: The big aircraft was making a
vertical landing. At Emm Luther's gravity this maneuver involved such a
prodigious expenditure of fuel that it would only be done either in an
emergency or in a landing where there was no room for even a primitive
airstrip. Tailon decided they had arrived at the Pavilion.
Coming down the steps from the passenger door, Tallon's first impression
was of the warmth of the air in contrast to the bitter winds of the New
Wittenburg winter. He had forgotten that the thousand-mile flight would
bring him close to the planet's tropics. As he was being guided across
an area of rippled concrete, with heat coming through the soles of his
thin boots, Tallon sensed the nearness of the sea with a sudden stab
of anguish. He had always liked looking at the sea. He was led through
a doorway and along a succession of echoing corridors, then finally
into a quiet room, where he was pushed into a chair. The booted feet
withdrew. Wondering if he was alone, Tallon turned his head from side
to side, aware of his utter helplessness.
"Well, Tallon, this is just about the end of the line for you. I guess
you'll be glad to rest for a while." The voice was deep and strong. Tallon
visualized its owner as a big man of about fifty. The important thing was
that he had been spoken to personally, and not unkindly. Another human
mind was reaching out through the darkness. He opened his mouth to reply,
but his throat felt tight. He nodded his bead, feeling like a schoolboy.
"Don't worry, Tallon. The reaction is catching up with you. I'll see you
get something to help you over the next few days. I'm Dr. Muller, head
of the psychology department attached to the prison. I'm going to give
you a routine check to make sure that you-know-what has been permanently
erased from your memory; then I'm going to hand you over to my colleague,
Dr. Heck, who'll see what be can do about your eyes."
"My eyes!" Tallon felt an irrational surge of hope. "Do you mean . . . ?"
"That's not my department, Tallon. Dr. Heck will examine you as soon as
I'm finished, and I'm sure he'll do everything that can be done."
Absorbed with the idea that perhaps his eyes were not so badly damaged
as he had imagined, Tallon sat patiently through the testing procedures,
which took nearly an hour. The program involved more than a dozen tiny
injections, some of which brought on sharp attacks of nausea and dizziness.
Questions were thrown at him continually, often in women's voices,
although he had heard nobody else enter the room. Sometimes the
interrogative voices seemed to be originating right inside his head --
persuasive, seductive, or frightening in turn, and always irresistible.
Tallon heard his own voice gasping out incoherent replies. Finally he
felt the terminals being stripped from his head and body.
"That appears to be that, Tallon," Dr. Muller said. "As far as I'm concerned,
you're clear. I'm going to certify you as a normal class-three security risk,
which means you'll join the other detainees and will have all the customary
privileges. In a way, you're lucky."
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